La Réapparition
by AMarguerite
Summary: A companion piece, of sorts, to 'Comme Dans l'Histoire', though it should make sense on its own. Marguerite and Percy remeet after two years, Armand gets trapped in a riot, Paul Déroulède has a cameo appearance, and Marguerite is cynical about love.
1. In Which Marguerite is Irritated

Disclaimer: The Baroness invented them, and I merely write about them.

Author's Note: Dedicated with my deepest gratitude to Sarah, my marvelous beta- reader. The title, _La Réapparition,_ is French for 'The Reappearance', usually with the connotation of sunlight returning or reappearing after a cloud bank.

* * *

Marguerite St Just rarely held dinner parties. There was the obvious reason, of course: she was an actress and was usually backstage during the normal dinner hours. Then there were the slightly less obvious reasons, which she didn't like to discuss, and which drove her to thunder around the apartment in her dressing gown and curl papers, looking irate and snapping at anyone who ventured to speak with her.

"Armand, have you seen my cameo?" Marguerite called, searching the chaise-longue in the drawing room and throwing cushions over her shoulders. She managed to unearth an earring, but not the wished-for cameo. "And whose earring is this?"

Armand, muddy boots propped up on an ottoman, remained engrossed in _L'Ami du Peuple_.

Marguerite threw the earring at her brother. "Armand!"

"What?" he asked, lowering the paper with reluctance.

"Have you seen my cameo, dearest brother?" she asked, with all the faked sweetness she could muster.

"I haven't seen it," Armand replied distractedly, once more absorbed in his newspaper. "Can you believe what Marat's writing?"

"No!" Marguerite declared, as she dragged a chair over a hole in the rug, and growled at the ensuing wrinkle. "Let me guess, he's calling for more blasted riots, we had quite enough in June, to put an absolute end to the monarchy? No, wait. He's calling for the _return_ of absolute monarchy, and the crucifixion of the painter David. No, he's telling everyone to sacrifice puppies to the goddess Isis!"

Armand glanced at her over the paper, as Marguerite tugged angrily on the carpet. "Such sarcasm from an ingénue. The theatre will have to rewrite your contract." He returned to his paper, and was lost to the world.

"You could at least _try_ to be helpful!" she wailed. "You _know_ how badly I organize dinner parties."

Armand ignored her and pointedly turned the page of his paper.

Marguerite was tempted to throw something at him, but Louise walked primly into the room and announced, "Mam'zelle, M'sieur Déroulède is here to see you."

"Tell him the salon isn't meeting today. I don't know why he's here, he _knows_ that Sundays are my days off, and I don't see anyone on Sundays- ah ha!" Marguerite lunged at the window seat and dug her cameo out from behind the curtain. Feeling much happier with the world, Marguerite tied the cameo around her neck and examined her reflection in the window, quite glad that it was cloudy.

In the reflection, Louise tugged on the lacy edge of her mob cap. "Yes Mam'zelle, but he had questions about tonight's dinner party." She looked heavenward, lips pursed. "He wants to bring a guest."

Marguerite closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the window with a '_thunk_', her happiness evaporating. "_Mon Dieu._ It's bad enough that it's been crowded because of the anniversary of the Bastille, _and_ there's that demonstration today which Armand wants to go to, and Cousin Louis invited Citoyen Robespierre and told me _yesterday_, and Chauvelin mysteriously had to travel to the countryside after getting that letter on Friday, and Jacqueline got hurt when the backdrop fell down last night, and now my seating chart's uneven, and Talma's ill, and-" Marguerite opened her eyes and stared at the street in front of the house, mentally tallying the figures. "He wants to bring a guest, you said?"

"Yes," Louise repeated, still sounding rather put- out. "You didn't tell me Citoyen Robespierre's coming to dinner, Mademoiselle." She was enunciating each word very carefully and crisply, a clear sign of utter irritation.

"Well, he apparently is," Armand mumbled into his paper.

"And now my seating chart is even again," Marguerite added, feeling much happier, aside from the vague fear that Louise would take out her irritation on her stays. Surprised by her sudden good fortune, she sat up straight and examined her reflection in the window. She wasn't dressed terribly indecently, was she? The dressing gown was new after all, and she could put a lace cap over her hair and no one could fault her for wearing curl papers in company. Marguerite retied the sash of her dressing gown and serenely stood. "Tell him I'll see him, but let me find a cap first."

Louise curtsied precisely, and with a hint of disapproval, remarked, "There should be a cap in the upper right-hand drawer of your desk, Mam'zelle." Louise turned on her heel and marched out the hall, with a half- stifled sigh.

Marguerite lunged at her desk and furiously sifted through the disorganized contents of the drawer. She finally found the cap and carefully arranged it over her curling hair.

"M'sieur Déroulède," Louise announced, tone dripping with disapproval.

"The visit will be short, Louise, so don't take that tone," Marguerite retorted, rolling her eyes at her reflection and adjusting the cap to better flatter her cheekbones. She turned with a smile and held her hand out to Paul. "Paul! What an unexpected pleasure."

Paul Déroulède, dressed shockingly fashionably in a brown fustian suit and a tricolor sash, bowed over Marguerite's hand. "Forgive the intrusion Mademoiselle St Just. I'm afraid I caught you at a bad time."

Armand glanced up from his newspaper. "It's not dinner time yet, is it?"

Marguerite sighed melodramatically, now that she had an audience, and looked heavenward. "Armand, my dear brother, you haven't had lunch yet. Your patriotism and dedication to the concerns of the republic, and in particular, those of Citoyen Marat, are awe-inspiring to behold, but I doubt that you have the sense to boil an egg."

"I wouldn't know," Armand protested, folding up the paper. Marguerite had the impulse to crow in triumph, but suppressed it behind a well-practiced and charming smile. "Louise doesn't allow me into the kitchen."

Louise raised her dark eyebrows until they disappeared under the lace fringe of her mobcap, as if to say "With good reason", but she remained silent, as she always did in company.

Marguerite shook her head delicately, half- certain her cap would fly off. "Well Paul, Louise said you wished to bring a guest to dinner?" She sat with a graceful and practiced sweep of lacy petticoats, gesturing regally at the armchair opposite her own.

Paul had the good grace to look embarrassed, and shook his head, but replied, "Well, you see… you have a dinner party tonight, and you always invite the best, euh… most intelligent people to them, and, euh- you _are _having a dinner party, and-"

"I'm aware, Paul," Marguerite interrupted, slightly loudly, as Louise had begun clearing her throat impatiently. "You have a standing invitation to them." She leaned forward and whispered, "Best hurry, you interrupted Louise in the middle of cleaning, and she hates that."

Paul looked rather flustered. He could speak easily and comfortably in front of crowds, the Assembly, and the assembled guests in Marguerite's salon, but he still had an absurd amount of difficulty communicating with people in a one-on-one basis. Marguerite was under the distinct impression that this unfortunate inability to communicate had once gotten him into a singularly unpleasant duel. "Euh… a, euh… friend of mine returned from the East this week, he, ah, he hasn't been in Paris for two years, and euh… I thought it… a good idea to… euh…" Armand had lost interest, Marguerite noted, and was stealthily unfolding his paper. Louise was tapping her foot and looking pointedly at an abandoned feather duster on the hall table.

"Introduce him to the virtues of our new republic?" Marguerite finished flippantly, casting a quelling look in Louise's direction. "But of course, Paul, provided that he, she, or it isn't a fanatic monarchist who would risk their life and reputation on such a terrible ideology."

Paul smiled in relief. "Don't worry. I don't know a single person who doesn't get along with Sir Percy."

Marguerite smiled. "Wonderful! To tell the truth, my table was uneven. Cousin Louis's bringing Citoyen Robespierre, Chauvelin received some mysterious letter from the countryside and galloped off, and Jacqueline was hurt after last night's performance. I tried inviting Suzanne de Tournay- you know her, of course? - but the card was returned to me." She shook her head again, trying to stave off a sudden rush of sadness. "It wasn't even opened. Some things never change, I suppose. Her mother never approved of me."

'_Careful, Marguerite,_' she thought. '_No one wants to see a sad actress._' She allowed herself a moment to look prettily melancholy and feel quite miserable, but then forced herself to smile bravely. "Well! Have I met this Sir Percy before?"

"Um," was Paul's baffled reply. "He, euh… he left Paris right before the women's march on Versailles, back in October '89. I apologize; I have no idea. He _has_ seen you perform. I know that. He mentioned something about Psyche-"

"Was he at the Flanders banquet?" she asked, feeling slightly puzzled. "I don't remember playing Psyche before then…." Marguerite shrugged and decided it wasn't important. When she thought about the banquet, she felt unreasonably angry, much like when she thought about St. Cyr. "It doesn't matter. Just bring him along." She waved him away and began digging through her desk, trying to find her seating chart. She paused a moment and looked nervously at Paul. "Oh, and do be careful coming, my dear Paul. There haven't been riots in nearly a month, so I'm still holding the dinner, but there's to be a demonstration today…." She forced a smile. "Do be careful, my dear."

Paul smiled. It seemed rather odd to see him smile, Marguerite noted.

"Don't worry, Marguerite," he reassured her, pushing the lapel of his jacket to the side, to reveal the pistol tucked into his tricolor sash.

Armand glanced over the edge of his paper. "Smart," he commented, before glancing at Louise. "Do we have pistols?"

Louise pursed her lips thoughtfully and walked out of the room. Marguerite turned her attention to the desk and Paul prepared to leave.

"Oh!" Paul exclaimed, in the act of putting his hat on. "I'm not sure if you're aware, Marguerite. Citoyen Robespierre has a, euh… rather singular diet. In all the time I've known him, he's really only eaten oranges, bread, and coffee."

Marguerite pulled a crumpled seating chart out of the drawer and sighed. "At least I haven't gone to the market yet. Louise was afraid there would be riots."

"Take a pistol with you." Looking worried and relieved at the same time, Paul left, bowing to Louise as he passed her in the hall.

"We have two," Louise announced in minor surprise, clutching her feather duster under one arm and a case of pistols under the other. "I tell you, Mam'zelle, Mathilde, the parlor maid over at the Marquis de Lafayette's, said that the Marquis was worried he'd have t'bring the National Guard out today, since the Jacobins and the Feuillants broke off, and since there haven't been any riots yet."

"And it's the anniversary week of the storming of the Bastille, and last month the king tried to flee," Marguerite interrupted, looking heavenward and shaking her head. "_Dieu_, Louise, if there wasn't a riot on the fourteenth, there won't _be_ one." Marguerite sat at her desk, sighed, and pulled out another piece of paper. "Besides, back in '89 there were riots every other _day_, and we still went to the market, and I still went to the theatre. Let's see… Chartier and Fauve will want to be seated next to each other, they've been ridiculous like that ever since they married… I hope they're not brining Mathieu. Then… Citoyen Robespierre and Louis across from each other, at Armand's end…."

Louise set the pistol case on the table and frowned at the cushions strewn messily around the chaise- longue. "I'll go to the market in the afternoon." With a particularly black look at the couch, _sans_ pillows, she added, "_After_ I clean up."

"I'm coming with you," Marguerite said, scribbling _Sir Percy_ in, across from an ink smudge that was supposed to be the name _Chartier_. "You _know_ we'll only get actual meat if I flirt with the butcher."

Armand sighed, loudly. "I don't approve!"

"I pay the bills!" Marguerite replied sweetly. "Representatives aren't paid much, darling, and you know it."

Louise methodically stacked the cushions back on the couch. "We'll get ready to go in an hour then. We'll have to dress your hair, Mam'zelle."

Marguerite leaned over her desk, sighing over her seating chart. "I hate the 'hedgehog'. I don't take particular pleasure in saying that I have an animal on my head."

"I'm coming with you," Armand added determinedly, folding his newspaper with finality. "I should go to the demonstration down in the Champ de Mars anyways." He paused, momentarily uncertain. "We do go to the market down by the Champ de Mars, right? Well, it doesn't matter. I don't want you and Louise out alone in Paris, and-"

"_Bien_, a family outing," Marguerite muttered, wondering how on earth to add oranges to her menu. Did Louise know how to make duck á l'orange? Could she get a duck?

"And I know- what?" Armand asked, confused.

"Far be it from me to stop you, darling, but you're taking one of the guns. Just try not to shoot yourself in the foot."


	2. In Which Marguerite is Worried

"Ah! You call these oranges!" Louise lamented, quarreling furiously with the vender. "They're cherries! They're apricots, if you want to be kind! You can't charge two _sous_ apiece for something so tiny!"

"These here are Seville oranges, straight from Spain," the vendor growled, shoving her basket under Louise's nose. "Best of the best!"

Louise sniffed indignantly. "By the looks of it, these came from Spain a month ago!" Louise and the vendor continued quarrelling,

Marguerite watched the spot where Armand had disappeared into the crowd about an hour ago, feeling vaguely apprehensive. _He'll be fine,_ she told herself, trying to focus on Louise's debate with the orange vendor. _You're overreacting, Marguerite. Nothing is going to happen…._ Marguerite shook her head. Of course it wouldn't. The most frustrating part of the day was over, anyway. After flirting almost shamefully with the butcher, she'd managed to obtain something vaguely resembling an emaciated duck, though she'd still paid more than she intended to.

The market was swarming with well- dressed citizens of the republic, sitting outside the cafes, listening to orators, or heading to the amphitheatre on the Champ de Mars for the ongoing banquet from the Fête de la Federation. Vendors hawked their wares to any interested buyer, and beggars were quickly shooed out of sight. The skies had cleared, a fiddler on the corner was playing something upbeat and cheerful, and the mixed aromas of food and flowers perfumed the air, masking the stench of oft-times unwashed humanity. Tricolor ribbons fluttered from every lamppost and store window. Marguerite reveled in it all. It was Paris! Glorious, wonderful, riot- free Paris!

Louise, with a dramatic sigh, paid the vendor and tucked several oranges into her basket. "Well, Mam'zelle. Let's see the list."

Marguerite handed it over without much reluctance.

Louise scanned it quickly. "We just need sugared almonds for desert, bread, and-"

She was cut off by a startling round of gunfire. Marguerite froze in fear. _Dieu,_ Louise couldn't have been right about the riots, could she? Marguerite clutched at a fold of her fichu, trying desperately to maintain her composure.

Several people screamed, and one fashionable young miss fainted into the waiting arms of her companion. The pleasantly busy street was plunged into turmoil, as everyone shoved passed each other in a frantic mélange of terrified men and women.

"It's all right!" someone called, loudly. Marguerite turned to see a young man, blinking owlishly at everyone through thick glasses, standing on a table in a café and waving several pamphlets in the air. "It's all right! They're blanks, it's all right!"

The screams subsided somewhat, and after several moments, the people stopped running about like… like….

"Like headless chickens," Marguerite murmured, releasing her anxious grip on her fichu. Louise, next to her, tugged on her cap and released the breath she'd been holding in one long '_whoosh_'.

"It's all right," the man declared once more, waving his sheaf of papers higher and adjusting his Phrygian cap. "The National Guard is firing blanks in the Military School down the road. They're going to post the law down in the amphitheatre and it's military procedure to fire a salute first; it's in these." He waved the pamphlets around again and blinked at everyone from behind his glasses. "Only a _sou_ if you want one."

Marguerite laughed in relief, as did many of the other pedestrians. "To think we're so frightened of our own fellow citizens, we run and scatter like a flock of chickens at the first sign of trouble," Marguerite remarked flippantly to Louise. "Are we still so afraid of the ever- present farmer, waiting to eat us for dinner? It's almost ridiculous."

Louise pulled on the lace edge of her mob cap. "All the same, Mam'zelle, I'd rather we didn't linger. Blanks or no, gunfire isn't good."

Marguerite waved away her concerns with affected nonchalance. "Where _is_ your sense of daring and patriotism, Louise? But the guns are making everyone edgy- that is usually the effect of guns- and prices will surely go up. Fear _always_ leads to inflation, I'm afraid."

Shaking her head, Louise reexamined the grocery list. "The almond vendor is by the baker's shop down on the Grande Rue de Chaillot. Let's go, Mam'zelle."

Marguerite and Louise managed to snake their way through the bustling streets to the Grande Rue de Chaillot and were well on their way to the baker's shop when Marguerite noticed the red flag flying at the entrance of the amphitheatre.

"Louise," Marguerite said uncertainly, tapping Louise's arm. "There's a… a flag… A red flag means the city is under martial law, doesn't it?" There was another round of gunfire, and the sound of stifled orders from inside the amphitheatre. "That's not supposed to happen."

Louise paled. "_Nom de Dieu…_ Mademoiselle, hurry!" Louise grabbed Marguerite's hand and they raced into the bakery. Louise flung open the door and hurtled inside, dragging Marguerite all the way. It was a demonstration in front of the altar, surely. Louise was just being her usual, worried, over-prepared self.

Wasn't she?

The baker's wife looked up curiously from where she was laying out croissants in a display case. "What's your hurry, citoyennes? Evelin rushed in here, scattering almonds left and right, too."

"I-" Marguerite started, before she was cut off by another round of gunfire, and a growing crescendo of screams.

"_Nom de Dieu_," Louise repeated, sagging against the doorframe. "They're firing on the crowd in the Champ de Mars."

Marguerite's blood seemed to stop flowing. It was one thing to think something might happen, but quite another to hear her most terrifying suspicions confirmed. Firing on the crowd in the Champ de Mars… the demonstration at the altar of France, in the amphitheatre… Armand, _in_ the amphitheatre in the Champ de Mars….

Marguerite thrust her basket into Louise's arms. "Take this, Louise. I'm going to get Armand."

Louise, one basket dangling off her arm, another clutched to her chest, looked at Marguerite in undisguised astonishment. "Of all the things you've done Mam'zelle, this has got to be-"

Marguerite rushed out, dodging carriages and the mass exodus of frightened citizens streaming out of the amphitheatre. She vaguely thought she heard Louise shouting, "Mademoiselle!" from behind her, but she kept running.

Armand was inside, Armand might be injured…. Marguerite fought her way through the crowd, nimbly dodging elbows and pedestrians. She was almost there; she could see the entrance….

"Move!" someone shouted, shoving her to the side. Marguerite tumbled into someone else, feeling her hair come loose out of its pins, and tried to keep fighting her way through the crowd. Someone jammed an elbow into her stomach, as a coach came to a screeching halt on her right.

Marguerite gasped for air and blindly stumbled on. Someone knocked her hat off, and her hair tumbled out of its pins and combs. Her hair snagged on the button of a passer-by and she was dragged backwards before she painfully yanked her hair away. She darted around a carriage as it toppled over, gasping, and scrambled to the entrance of the amphitheatre, shedding pins as she ran. She was almost there… she shoved her way through the crowd, gasping out half- heard apologies.

Her elbow collided with something solid, to a most jarring effect.

"Oof," someone said, grabbing her forearm to steady himself.

"_Pardonnez- moi_," Marguerite panted, trying to twist her arm out of the person's grasp. The person, however, was disinclined to release her arm, so Marguerite was swung in a half- circle to face whoever had grabbed her arm. She pushed the hair out of her eyes with her free hand and glanced up to see a man, in a well- tailored fawn- colored suit, holding her arm.

"Sorry," Marguerite said, attempting to steady herself. The man's eyes were in shadow from his hat brim. "Release me! I need to get into the amphitheatre."

The man looked alarmed, and he pushed his hat back. He had very nice blue- gray eyes, but they failed to hold her interest. Marguerite glanced over her shoulder at the entrance to the amphitheatre. She was so close!

"Zounds, m'dear Mademoiselle St Just," the man replied, shocked, his French accented with some sort of irritating twang, "this is no place for a lady!"

"It's no place for anyone," Marguerite snapped, trying to wrench her arm free. "And my brother's in there! Now let me go!" To her surprise, the man did, just as she pulled away violently. She staggered backwards, the heel of her shoe caught in the cobblestones, and she crashed into someone attempting to run away.

There was another rapport of gunfire.

"Careful!" The man caught Marguerite before she fell completely, losing his hat in the process, and Marguerite, much to her annoyance, felt the heel of her shoe break off. The man- he was blond, and Marguerite had no idea why she noticed it- was shouting to be heard over the terrified screams of the mob. He pulled her upright, and Marguerite fell against his broad chest, crushing the flower in his buttonhole. She couldn't breathe for one dizzying moment.

"I _was_," she retorted breathlessly, managing to push herself back and glare up at her inadvertent rescuer. "My brother is in there, and-"

"Careful!" The blond man grabbed her arm again, and pulled her out of the way of a frightened brace of horses. "You should get out of here, Mademoiselle."

"My brother is in there!" Marguerite bellowed, most inelegantly. She swiped hair out of her eyes and batted a pin out of her face. "I'm not leaving until I find him. He could have been shot!"

The man looked at her intently and asked, "Your brother… Armand?"

"Armand St Just, my brother, yes! Will you let me go, or do you take pleasure in accosting and holding unknown women, sir?" Marguerite attempted to move away, momentarily forgot that she had broken her shoe, and fell onto the cobblestones. Wait a moment… how did he know her brother? Moreover, how did he know her name?

The man scooped her up as if she were a rag doll. Marguerite flung her arms around his neck in sheer terror. _Dieu_, it was disconcerting be picked up by strange gentlemen. "I'll get him for you, Mademoiselle St Just. What does he look like?"

Had they met before? Was this any time to think about it? Marguerite scowled. "He's a bit shorter than I am, has dark auburn hair, brown eyes, and was wearing a gray jacket and a white waistcoat. His name's Armand."

The man started walking, with utmost calm and equanimity, through the crowd, her skirts spilling out of his arms. "_Dieu!_" Marguerite tightened her grip on his neck and hid her face in his satin- clad shoulder. She was beginning to hate this experience.

"Are you all right, Mademoiselle?" the man asked courteously. "Where shall I take you?"

"The baker's shop, I suppose," Marguerite growled into the man's shoulder. She hated this, she hated this, she hated this….

"Eh… what?" He asked in English, before switching back to French. "My French isn't very good."

He was _English_. That was his accent. Did she know any Englishmen? Marguerite looked up, to find his face disconcertingly close to hers. Marguerite leaned back. "The bakery across the street. Please bring my brother there."

He inclined his head, and swept through the crowd. "As my lady wishes." He set her down in front of the bakery, bowed with utmost courtesy and elegance, and disappeared back into the crowd. Someone of his height shouldn't be able to vanish so quickly, Marguerite thought irritably, straightening her skirts.

"Mademoiselle!"

_Dieu._ Louise. And in a temper- every syllable of her speech was once again distinct.

"What on earth have you done to your hair? And who was that man?" Louise pulled Marguerite into the store and attacked her hair. She clicked her tongue. "Almost all your hairpins gone!"

"Someone knocked my hat off, and I have no idea. He's blond, British, somehow knows who I am, and he's apparently going to get Armand." Marguerite attempted to run back out the door, but Louise maintained a firm grip on her hair. "Ow!"

"You're not going anywhere looking like this," Louise whispered, mortified. She pulled an ornamental comb out of Marguerite's hair and began plucking out hairpins. "And that man said he'd get Armand."

Marguerite stared out the window, straining her eyes for any glimpse of her brother, or the blond Englishman. "I don't know who he is, he could be deranged, or lying, or- ouch! Do you have to pull so hard?"

"Yes. Hold still." Louise twisted Marguerite's curls into a chignon at the base of her neck. She began to strategically stab hairpins and combs in it to make it stay put. "You should _not_ go back out there Mademoiselle. There is a riot going on outside, and the National Guard is firing on people."

"She's right," the baker's wife chimed in. "Ain't she, Evelin?"

Marguerite turned to look at the baker's wife sitting with Evelin, the almond- seller, next to the counter. Evelin was trembling, and shredding a paper cone, used to carry almonds, into bits. The baker's wife kept worriedly glancing into the back room.

"Claude," she said, impatiently, "get those boards up afore they break the windows again."

The baker, carrying a tray piled with several boards, appeared, frowning uneasily. "Danielle, you don't think it'll be like those riots in '89 again, do you?"

Evelin and Danielle, the baker's wife, looked at each other apprehensively.

"Prob'ly," Evelin whispered, shredding the paper cone into a tiny mound of confetti. Louise finished pinning up Marguerite's hair and, as was her habit, stepped back to admire her handiwork. Marguerite crushed the impulse to bolt out of the shop and look for Armand. She bit her lower lip, hard, and stared out the window. The air reverberated with the sound of screams and gunfire.

The Guards fired again, and the crowd pouring out of the amphitheatre thinned, somewhat. Two coaches lay overturned in the street, the horses screaming, the people…. Marguerite turned away, hiding her face in her hands. Think about anything, anything besides this…. Marguerite cast about for something. They were doing Voltaire's _Brutus_ next, at the _Theatre de la Republique_. What part was she playing?

Another round of gunfire. _Le bon Dieu_, would it never end?

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle," the baker said kindly. "We'll need the boards up. Be so kind as to move the trays?"

Woodenly, Marguerite obeyed. She grabbed a tray of pastries and brought them to the counter in the back, trying very hard not to think of Armand, or hear the constant, frightened screams outside. She glanced out the window again.

Everyone rushed by in a molten stream of color, made all the more vivid from unadulterated terror. The baker began to nail up the boards over the windows, just as another round of gunfire added to the melee.

Marguerite sagged against the counter. "I can't stand this," she murmured to Louise. "We should do _some_thing."

Still irate, Louise hissed, "There is no _possible_ way, Mademoiselle, that I am letting you go out there, _again_, by _yourself_, in the _middle of a riot-_"

Marguerite sighed. "I know. _Dieu_! I wish…." She trailed off and traced the grain of the wooden countertop with a fingertip. Several moments passed.

Louise tugged on her cap and then remarked, "Since we're here, Madame Frauvent, we'd like to buy three loaves of bread."

"You can think of shopping at a time like this?" Marguerite asked incredulously, jerking her chin towards the window.

Louise pulled her cap straight. "Better than thinking on all _that_, particularly when we can't do anything about it, Mam'zelle."

The baker looked dubiously at his wife. "You handle it."

Louise commenced to haggling over bread, and, after a while, almonds, lending a strange air of normalcy to the scene. It was shattered only when another round of gunfire went off.

Marguerite absently watched the baker hammer nails into the boards before realizing, with a sickening jolt of horror, that she had sent the Englishman into an enclosed area full of firing guns. _Dieu_, what if the man died? She couldn't live with herself, knowing she'd caused someone's death. Even St. Cyr, the demon, didn't deserve something like that.

The baker finished nailing the boards over one window, and sighed. "I don't know how we're to run a business with all this going on. I mean-" He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

Monsieur Frauvent dubiously opened the door. "Hello?"

"Hello," someone replied calmly, in accented French. "By any chance, is Mademoiselle St Just here?"

Marguerite turned gratefully to the door.

Behind the baker were the blond Englishman, smiling rather sheepishly, and (praise God!) Armand, leaning tiredly on the Englishman's shoulder.

"Armand!" Marguerite choked out, tears rushing to her eyes. Running on the toes of her shoes, she rushed to the door and hovered uncertainly by the door frame.

"Hello Marguerite," Armand said, with some difficulty.

"Are… are you hurt?" Marguerite asked, twisting the end of her fichu around her hand. "God bless you, Monsieur," she added hurriedly, smiling tremulously at the Englishman, who blushed.

"Just a bit hurt," Armand said, wincing when he moved. The baker moved out of the doorway, looking slightly skeptical, and Armand, leaning on the Englishman, hobbled in.

"Silly," Marguerite retorted, blinking back tears and forcing a smile. "I told you not to shoot yourself in the foot."

"Oh I didn't," Armand replied, sounding vaguely indignant. "A Guardsman did."


	3. In Which Marguerite is Amused

Marguerite had never before loved her apartment so deeply. How wonderfully close they were to the Champ de Mars! Just ten minutes drive by carriage, really. How fantastic that their upstairs neighbor was a medical student! True, he was smitten with her, and spent more time telling her how much he loved seeing her as the title role in Moliere's _Za__ïre _than actually attending to Armand, but when Marguerite made up some nonsense about being needed in the other room, he managed to patch Armand up perfectly. How close her room was to Armand's, so she could sneak off and get a new pair of shoes before he noticed her absence! Ah, wonderful, wonderful apartment!

The hallway was lovely too. It was white and empty with cheerful pictures on whitewashed walls- absolutely no frightened mob to get in the way. The Englishman was the lone occupant. Marguerite closed the door to Armand's bedroom, firmly bid _adieu_ to the lovesick medical student, and glanced at her reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. She was at least… presentable.

Marguerite curled a stray tendril of hair around her finger and glanced at the Englishman, who was uneasily studying a picture hung at the other end of the hall.

He was really quite handsome, Marguerite reflected. Golden- blond hair, deep- set gray- blue eyes, broad shoulders and a massive build. Strange she couldn't remember who he was, then; not many gentleman of her acquaintance were over six foot, as she was quite sure the Englishman was at least six foot four. She bit her lips, partially to help her think, partially to make them redder. He knew her, she hadn't a clue whom he was, but he _was_ English, rather handsome, extremely tall… _Dieu_! She _should_ know his name.

The gentleman turned and quickly bowed. "Mademoiselle St Just. I hope your brother is all right."

"The doctor seems to think his case is not… entirely severe," Marguerite replied dryly, walking down the hall. She paused to glance into the sitting room. There was a fire in the hearth, and Louise was setting out a tea tray. Ah, wonderful. One couldn't hear the gunfire from there.

"I'm glad," the man replied simply, walking over to her.

Marguerite smiled up at him thankfully and offered him her hand. "Monsieur, I don't know how I can ever thank you for saving my brother."

The Englishman bowed over her hand and smiled, wonderfully shyly. "Think nothing of it, Mademoiselle St Just. Odd's fish, it was the very least I could do."

Marguerite blinked and smiled wryly. "Monsieur, you went into an amphitheatre where National Guardsmen were massacring people, to risk your life saving the life of a man I'm assuming you've never met before. _Dieu,_ you English have a strange definition of small services." The Englishman grinned rather sheepishly, and Marguerite squeezed his hand. "Whatever you call it, I'm very glad you did, Monsieur… forgive me. I think we've met before, but with Armand's injury and the riot, your name's vanished from my memory."

There was a flicker of disappointment in his eyes, but it vanished so quickly Marguerite discredited the notion. The gentleman released her hand and bowed again. "Sir Percy Blakeney, at your service, Mademoiselle St Just."

"Paul's friend!" Marguerite exclaimed, with some surprise. Where on earth had she met Sir Percy before? She knew she _had_, but where? Paul had said something about Psyche… ah! "We met at the… Flanders's banquet?"

Sir Percy smiled charmingly. "Indeed, Mademoiselle."

He was _disarmingly_ handsome when he smiled. Marguerite wondered why she'd ever forgotten him. "It is quite wonderful to see you again, though I must confess that I'm… shocked that you remember me. We met for only an hour, did we not?"

Sir Percy smiled again. "An hour was enough," he stated quietly, his gaze curiously earnest and intense.

Marguerite flushed, feeling rather foolish. She'd obviously made enough of an impression on this man that he remembered her, after seeing her for an hour, for roughly two years; however, until two or three hours ago she had forgotten his very existence. 'Awkward' did not seem a strong enough adjective, and Sir Percy kept smiling obliviously, making her feel all the worse.

Marguerite pushed open the door to the sitting room. "Won't you come in? It looks like Louise made a tea tray." Sir Percy looked at her quizzically, one eyebrow raised.

"Louise is my maid," Marguerite explained, smiling winsomely to cover up her embarrassment, "and whenever there is anything whatsoever to disturb her equanimity, riots, for instance, she will plunge into any sort of work she can find, in the hopes that if _she_ continues on as if everything is normal, it will be."

Sir Percy laughed politely, a sound that seemed somewhat restrained, and smiled shyly at her. Marguerite found that she was charmed despite herself.

"And yourself, Mademoiselle?" Sir Percy asked.

Marguerite glanced up at him from underneath her eyelashes, and walked into the room. Sir Percy followed as if on a leash. It was wonderful to have long eyelashes.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit of a fatalist," Marguerite murmured, shutting the door behind them both. "I should like to say I take changes as a matter of course, but I usually fight them, or fight for them, before sinking into resignation or glorying in them." She paused, measuring the effect she was having on Sir Percy.

"A wise decision," he replied, still smiling. "Alas, though, it pains me to disagree with you, m'dear lady. I've always been told that Fate is a one- eyed, one-legged beggar with three hairs on his head. It lies with us to grab him by the hair and lead him about."

Marguerite looked at him curiously, wondering if he just couldn't express himself in French, or if that really was his life philosophy. Sir Percy just… smiled. It was a very gorgeous smile, true, but it was very hard to tell if he was in earnest or not. He began to look rather concerned as Marguerite continued to stare at him.

'_Oh!'_ she thought, with dawning surprise, '_was he trying to tell a joke?_' Marguerite laughed prettily and patted Sir Percy on the arm. "What an original outlook you have!" she exclaimed, beaming at him. Sir Percy blushed.

Oh, he _was_ intriguing. She'd have to invite him to one of her salons.

"I'm so pleased you approve," Sir Percy replied, once his blush began to fade. "Zounds, there is nothing like validation of one's thoughts from a beautiful lady."

Marveling that Sir Percy knew as complex a word as 'validation', Marguerite smiled archly and swept over to the table. "Would you like any tea?" She sat with a practiced sweep of skirts, and raised her eyebrows. "I'm not sure how you take tea in England. Is it different than in France?"

"I've been away from Paris so long I scarce remember how it is taken," Sir Percy replied, with a half-shy, half- inane laugh. "I've been traveling the continent for the past two years."

"Traveling?" Marguerite inquired, fascinated. "Where to?" She began pouring out tea. "Oh, and cream or sugar, Sir Percy?"

"We traveled to the East, mainly. Cream please."

Marguerite stirred in the cream and handed him the cup. "India?" she guessed.

Sir Percy smiled in response, and accepted his tea.

Marguerite was captivated. "Was it as exotic as everyone says it is? I've always wanted to go there, ever since I first played a part in _Za__ïre_."

Once again, Sir Percy smiled. "I can't speak for all of India, but Bengal was rather exotic, though… it's been thoroughly civilized."

"Civilized?" Marguerite inquired, pouring herself a cup of tea and quirking up her eyebrows.

"Oh yes indeed," Sir Percy replied, with mild amusement. "There's a cricket field every ten miles. Every four or five if you're closer to the cities."

Marguerite laughed. "Ah, the true mark of civilization in the eyes of the British!"

"That, a neatly tied cravat, and afternoon tea," Sir Percy drawled, with a small smile, "and demme if they didn't have the best tea I've ever tasted."

Marguerite laughed again, most amused. He was quite charming. She'd been lucky to, literally, run into him

Louise knocked on the door and crisply announced, "Madame Fauve Chartier."

Marguerite and Sir Percy stood, in accordance with social custom. Fauve, her blond hair is disarray, appeared in the doorway, clutching a squealing toddler. "My apologies for invading you like this, Marguerite my dear, but the city's under marshal law and they've closed all the streets. Hush, Matthieu. Say hello to Auntie Margot."

Matthieu, the toddler, slid to the floor and continued wailing.

"He can't begin to express his joy," Fauve commented wryly, smoothing back her hair with a gloved hand. "Calm yourself, pet." Matthieu ignored this sage advice and continued to scream.

"It's wonderful to see you both, Fauve," Marguerite called loudly, as Matthieu redoubled his wails. She sent an apologetic look at Sir Percy, who thankfully looked more amused than anything else. "Though I must say, Matthieu certainly seems more vocal and less loquacious than when we last met. Do you know Sir Percy Blakeney?"

"Oh!" Fauve exclaimed, with some surprise. "Forgive me Margot, I didn't know you had a guest." She turned to Sir Percy and curtsied. Sir Percy bowed properly and Fauve studied him a moment. "My brains are a terrible muddle thanks to my… _darling_… son, but I'm afraid I can't place you. I _remember _you, to be sure, but I've always been better at recognizing faces than matching them with names."

"We all met at the Banquet for the Flanders Regiment," Marguerite reminded her. "Sir Percy, this is Madame Fauve Chartier. I suppose you'd recognize her as Mademoiselle Fauve Poudreuse."

"As ever, charmed to meet you," Sir Percy said politely. He looked at her son with some bafflement.

"Don't mind him," Fauve commented with an air of despondency, collapsing onto a chair. "He's upset his father staid at the theatre and because of all the noise on the street. Besides, according to Rousseau, it's good to show emotion. Show it away, pet!"

Matthieu thus continued to sob, though now with the apparent blessing of his mother and Rousseau.

"Tea, Fauve?" Marguerite nearly yelled.

"Do you have anything stronger, Margot?" Fauve looked at her son with slight bewilderment, as if confronting a piece of bizarre dialogue she'd never before encountered. "I dare say we shall all need it."

Sir Percy unexpectedly crouched next to Matthieu and tapped him on the shoulder. Matthieu was shocked enough to stop screaming momentarily and to look up.

"Do excuse me," Sir Percy said, very politely, "but why, m'dear fellow, are you carryin' on so?"

"Daddy," Matthieu whimpered screwing up his face in preparation for another temper tantrum.

"Is coming, pet!" Fauve called, a bit desperately. "So don't cry."

Tears began to leak from Matthieu's eyes. Marguerite despairingly held her head in her hands, and Fauve sunk back into her chair with a groan.

"No, don't cry," Sir Percy echoed hurriedly. "If you do, you shan't be able to see the magic!"

Matthieu was at least grudgingly intrigued. "Magic? What magic?"

Sir Percy winked at him conspiratorially. "Ah! We can't find out if you keep cryin' so. It's frightful skittish, magic."

Matthieu appeared highly suspicious. Fauve began to look concerned.

In a rather theatrical stage whisper, Sir Percy continued. "M'dear fellow, just look!" The lace ends of his sleeves dancing in an elaborate flourish, he pulled a franc out of Matthieu's ear. "See? However, it only comes about when-" he tossed the coin up in the air, caught it in his other hand, and then opened his hand to reveal nothing "-we least expect it."

"You do magic tricks, Sir Percy?" Marguerite asked, delighted.

"It's a terrible habit," he admitted, turning to her a moment, "but yes, I do."

Matthieu stared, open mouthed, then tugged on Sir Percy's coattail. "Do it again," he demanded.

Sir Percy smiled. "Ah, magic is a fickle mistress-" Fauve started uncomfortably at that, as she had been Chartier's long-standing mistress before they married and was still sensitive about it"-and it can't be made to do anything it doesn't want to do. But if we ask politely and wait quietly, it'll turn up when least expected."

Matthieu looked around the room and managed to crawl up on his hands and knees. Sir Percy picked him up by the back of his jacket and set him upright.

"I wanna look," Matthieu informed them at large. He waddled over to Marguerite and fisted a grubby hand in her skirt. Marguerite smiled genially and condemned her dress to the rag bag. "You help," he insisted.

Fauve lazily raised a finger. "Ah, ah, ah, pet! What do you say to Auntie Margot?"

"You help?" Matthieu asked hopefully.

"Ah, ah, ah!"

"Auntie Margot?"

"_S'il te plait_, pet." Fauve let her finger drop.

Matthieu scrunched up his face, and for one dangerous moment Marguerite was afraid he was going to cry. Again. "_S'il te plait_," he repeated, with utmost concentration.

"_Pardi_!" Marguerite exclaimed quickly. She stood and slid several fingers into his grubby fist, taking his hand away from her taffeta skirt. "Where shall we look, Matthieu?"

"There," Matthieu imperiously informed her, pointing at where Sir Percy was crouching, looking slightly bemused.

Marguerite raised her eyebrows at Sir Percy, who, wonderfully slowly, grinned. His whole face was transformed by it, and Marguerite felt a silly urge to either blush or grin back. She quickly repressed the urge and hunched over to look at Matthieu face to face. "Why there?"

"That's where it was," Matthieu said, matter-of-factly.

"And I think that's where it remains," she replied, half- laughing. "Well, Sir Percy? Any other magic tricks?"

"Perhaps," he answered somewhat enigmatically. "I say, what's that?" With another dramatic flourish, he appeared to pull a slightly crushed flower from her hair. He presented it to Matthieu with utmost solemnity.

"The flower isn't good," Matthieu remarked, pressing the slightly more crushed flower into her hand.

Sir Percy raised his eyebrows. "Ah, it wilts because its beauty is nothing compared to Mademoiselle St Just's." Matthieu looked confused.

"Auntie Margot, pet," Fauve drawled, observing them all with the serene air of a benevolent goddess.

Marguerite laughed delicately and stuck the flower behind her ear. "You flatter me, Sir Percy."

"Ah, but the poor flower was crushed by your beauty," Sir Percy insisted.

She noticed his buttonhole was suddenly bereft of its flower, and laughed, a little less restrainedly. "I'm afraid I did crush it after all," she admitted ruefully, "though perhaps my gracelessness had more to do with it than my beauty."


	4. In Which Marguerite is Sentimental

Dinner passed uneventfully, though Sir Percy appeared to be much distressed by the fact that he wasn't dressed properly for dinner. Once it was pointed out that the city was under marshal law and he couldn't travel anywhere safely, and Marguerite had looked up from underneath her eyelashes and smiled a bit more than was strictly necessary, Sir Percy agreed to stay, though he refused to go into the dining room.

As no one showed up for her dinner party, Marguerite gloomily informed Louise that they'd just dine informally in the sitting room. It was highly disappointing, but, as Louise crossly informed her, "You wouldn't have enough to feed such a big dinner party anyway. How on earth did the butcher convince you _this_ was a duck?"

The evening was soft and cool, almost disarmingly so, and Armand felt well enough to come sit with them in the sitting room. Marguerite made him sit by the fireplace, where Sir Percy genially entertained both Armand and Matthieu. Matthieu remained in awe of Sir Percy and trailed after him like a slightly grimy duckling, much to Fauve's relief. She had claimed a comfortable chair near the tea table, and she and Marguerite, sitting beside her, observed the scene with a strange detachment, as if they were at the theatre, waiting in the wings for their cues.

Sir Percy had unearthed a pack of cards and was performing magic tricks to an appreciative audience. "And was this your card?" he inquired, pulling it off the top of the deck.

"I don't know," Matthieu replied, furrowing his brow in consternation.

"Well, let's try it again." Sir Percy said quickly, glancing at Fauve.

"He won't cry," she said dismissively. "If you get tired of entertaining him, I'll put him to bed. You didn't take a nap today, did you, pet?"

"Yes," Matthieu insisted, with almost convincing innocence.

"No you didn't," Fauve called. "No lying, pet. Mama doesn't have that bad a memory." She turned to Marguerite, grimaced, and lowered her voice. "Never have children, Margot. They're more of a hassle than you'd think. I'm so glad I've already had my one to satisfy Chartier." She waved her hand flippantly, then looked at Sir Percy measuringly. "I'm surprised how well Sir Percy gets along with children. Hmm. If I wasn't happy with Chartier I'd try to steal him from you. Good with children, nice to look at, a baronetcy, and did I mention he's rich? Just look at the lace on his sleeves, my dear! If it isn't the finest Mechlin, I no longer deserve to call myself fashionable. If you're not quick someone else will snatch him up."

Sir Percy made the cards disappear, to the amusement of both Armand and Matthieu.

"Who ever said I wanted to 'snatch' up anyone?" Marguerite murmured, nodding at Louise to start clearing away the dinner things from what was normally the card table. "I'm perfectly happy with the way things are now. He is dashing, though, isn't he? It's almost as if he stepped out of the pages of a storybook… if it weren't for the fact he is so… unceasingly…."

"British?" Fauve supplied dryly. "Alas, what a terrible flaw to have nowadays! And it was so popular, too, just a few years back."

"Well, yes," Marguerite agreed, with a delicate laugh, "he'd be quite perfect. I'll have to invite him to one of my salons."

Sir Percy began to pull cards out from behind Matthieu's ear, much to Matthieu's astonishment. Marguerite and Fauve watched them, almost indulgently.

"Well, be careful with him," Fauve advised lightly. "He's halfway to being quite mad about you."

Marguerite looked sky-ward and shook her head. "Fauve, I can't name a single admirer of mine who has actually ended up being truthfully, wholeheartedly, honestly in love with me. Besides, how _can_ he be in love with me? We met once, two years ago, for, at most, two hours."

Fauve lifted a shoulder in an elegant and unconcerned shrug. "For some, it only takes that long. I suppose it did for him. But really, Margot, it's almost shameful. I suppose you weren't paying much attention to his behavior during dinner?"

"Not really, no." Marguerite shifted uncomfortably. "Fauve, will Matthieu be upset that his father probably isn't coming?"

"No, and stop trying to change the subject. I've now decided he is indeed mad for you, and I intend to find out what you're going to do about it."

Marguerite bit her lower lip a moment. "_Dieu. _If I tell you, can we end this discussion?"

Fauve lazily inclined her head. "It's a deal… for today only."

With a dramatic flourish, Marguerite announced, "Absolutely nothing. It isn't real." Fauve looked as if she'd been denied a great treat, but Marguerite raised her voice and asked, "Armand, my dear, what actually happened in the Amphitheatre?"

Armand looked up. "Wha…? Oh, euh… the riot. Well… it's sort of funny, almost." He looked at Matthieu, who was still fixated on the deck of cards that had magically reappeared in Sir Percy's hands.

Fauve waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry. He won't pay any attention as long as Sir Percy keeps doing card tricks." She smiled winsomely at him. "As long as you don't mind, of course."

Sir Percy admitted, rather endearingly, that he'd be pleased to entertain the two- year-old.

"Well," Armand started hesitantly. "The mob found… euh, a cripple and… was it a hair dresser or a wig maker?"

"A hair dresser, I do believe," Sir Percy drawled. "I say, m'dear boy, do you wash your ears?" He then apparently pulled a card out of Matthieu's ear. Matthieu was astonished and poked himself in the ear several times in search of more cards.

Armand shifted in his chair, to make himself more comfortable. "Well, they found two people lurking underneath the altar. Everyone was a bit… panicked, I suppose, so it was assumed they'd been hiding there planning to blow up the altar."

Sounding as if he was suppressing his own amusement, Sir Percy interjected, "Though in their defense, they claimed to be hiding there for… ah… a quite different purpose."

"Oh, yes," Armand agreed, uneasily stroking the wooden arm of his chair. "They said they were looking up women's skirts or something. In any case, the mob hung them."

Marguerite stifled an involuntary gasp, and Fauve glanced quickly at the oblivious Matthieu. "I suppose that's when the National Guard came in."

Armand nodded. "Yes. The Municipality was terrified and declared marshal law. They sent in the National Guard, and…." He trailed off and rubbed his eyes. "I can't remember much from there. They rounded us down to the lower half of the grounds and then..." He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "Chaos. I tried to leave, but I suppose one of the Guardsmen thought I was trying to attack him so he shot at me. I was lucky, though. I was only grazed by a bullet." He looked at his injured foot dismally and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "The more things change, the more they stay the same."

A heavy silence descended on the room, alleviated only by the soft crackling of the logs in the hearth and the clinks Louise made while clearing the table.

"Time for bed, pet," Fauve announced, loudly, and rose to her feet. "Margot, my dear, I beg your indulgence, but I'd like to wait and see if Chartier makes it here. I'll set Matthieu in the window seat."

"Of course," Marguerite exclaimed. "Louise and I will get a pillow and blanket for him, no, don't stand up, I'll be back momentarily."

Louise looked skyward through the lace fringe of her mobcap in evident exasperation, but gathered up the dishes and made a quick and noisy detour into the kitchen before returning to Marguerite. They walked out into the hall and began sifting through the contents of the linen closet.

"I don't mean to pry, Mademoiselle," Louise said primly, handing Marguerite a blanket, "but have you given any thought to where everyone will sleep, if M'sieur Chartier doesn't come?"

"_Dieu,_" Marguerite cursed, seizing the blanket. "No. Louise, fetch one of the small pillows from my room, and I'll take this in."

Once inside, Marguerite busied herself with making a make- shift bed for Matthieu -it looked terribly uncomfortable, and Marguerite momentarily wished she was more domestic- and with indulgently watching Armand doze off in front of the fireplace.

Matthieu grudgingly accepted the fact that he needed to sleep, his acquiescence encouraged by the idea that his father would somehow materialize in the apartment as he dozed, and several reassurances by Sir Percy that the magic would be there in the morning.

As Fauve was expressing more interest in the poor- quality port Louise was bringing in than her son, Marguerite took it upon herself to tuck Matthieu in. Marguerite soon discovered Fauve's reluctance to put her son to bed as Matthieu continually protested that he wouldn't be able to sleep, no matter how much he _needed _to.

"I won't," Matthieu repeated yet again, staring up at her innocently.

"Well, darling, why don't you try?" Marguerite suggested, leaning over to draw the blanket over him.

Matthieu turned over, causing the blanket to fall to the floor. "Won't," he insisted unhappily.

"The sooner you get to sleep, the sooner your father will be here," Marguerite promised vainly, wearily picking up the blanket.

"Won't," Matthieu replied, evidently just to hear the sound of it.

"_Pardi_, of course he will!" Marguerite draped the blanket over him and smiled prettily. "Don't you believe me, darling?"

Matthieu looked doubtful. Marguerite began to feel slightly exasperated.

Sir Percy then took pity on her, and joined her by the window seat. Marguerite glanced up at him from underneath her lowered lashes, lips curved in a bemused smile. It had exactly the effect she had hoped it would, as Sir Percy cleared his throat slightly uncomfortably and leaned against the wall with feigned nonchalance.

"M'dear boy, what, pray tell, is the matter?" he inquired polishing his quizzing glass on his satin sleeve. He held it up as if to inspect it for dust, and polished it on his sleeve again.

"Won't sleep," Matthieu informed him huffily. "Not tired."

"After such a long day?" Marguerite asked, with false surprise. "Darling, I'd be exhausted! You went to the theatre with your mother, then the streets were so crowded, and you came here for dinner… that's a great deal to do in one evening."

Matthieu remained unconvinced and restlessly turned over again, so he could glare at the ceiling. He yawned once, almost wrathfully. Marguerite, with a practiced swish of skirts, sat at the end of the window seat and leaned back against the window.

Sir Percy tapped his quizzing glass against his lower lip and looked thoughtful. With all the faked gravitas he could muster, he stated, "A song should do it."

Marguerite looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

"The answer to all our problems is a lullaby," Sir Percy informed her good- humouredly. "The right song should put you right to sleep. Of course, an opera would be ideal, but we must make do with what we have." He laughed softly, self - depreciatingly, under Marguerite's inquisitive stare. "They always put me to sleep. I'll be demmed if I can keep from dozin' while the soprano sings about unrequited love yet again."

Marguerite laughed lightly and, she hoped, musically before turning to face Matthieu. "Well, darling, sound good to you?"

Matthieu looked up at Sir Percy. "You sleep… with, with songs?"

Sir Percy inclined his head. "All the time, m'dear fellow, all the time!"

The toddler processed this thought a moment, nodded, and settled back into his make- shift bed. There was a moment of silence before Marguerite foolishly realized she was expected to sing.

"Oh! Euh…." She struggled to think of a song, and then smiled apologetically at Sir Percy. "Forgive me; I'm an actress, not an opera singer. Well… my mother used to sing a lullaby to my brother and me when we were little, before she… before we grew up," Marguerite amended hastily, wanting very much to shield Matthieu from the thought of death. She hummed the song a moment and tried to remember the lyrics. After a moment, she folded her hands in her lap and turned to look at Matthieu. "Dodo, l'enfant do," she sang softly, still slightly unsure of the words. "L'enfant dormira bien vite. Dodo, l'enfant do, l'enfant dormira benoît." She paused a moment and looked at Matthieu, who looked half- asleep. She belatedly remembered that Sir Percy probably had no idea what she was singing, and attempted to translate it into English. "Time to sleep, so child sleep, the child will sleep very soon. Time to sleep, so child sleep, the child will sleep oh so soon."

As Marguerite couldn't remember the rest of the words she fell silent, feeling strangely sentimental, and looked out the window at the endless velvet sky. It had been years since her mother died. She should have moved on from this. Slightly self –conscious, Marguerite smoothed back her hair, and then did the same to Matthieu's untidy fringe of brown hair. The toddler slept on, oblivious to her touch.

"You sing beautifully," Sir Percy commented softly.

Marguerite didn't look up and smiled slightly sadly. "Ah, _merci_. You are too kind."

"Not really," Sir Percy replied, with a hint of a laugh in his voice. "You have a very lovely voice. I should have known; you've a very musical speaking voice."

Marguerite acknowledged the compliment with a nod. "Indeed, as do most actresses. You'd be hard pressed to find one without an appealing speaking voice. No one would go see her."

Sir Percy was quiet. Marguerite glanced at the window, studying Sir Percy's distorted reflection. Their eyes met, briefly, in the window's reflection, before Marguerite looked out at the stars again.

"You deal with children very well," Marguerite commented, almost unnecessarily. "I love Matthieu, but I'd go mad if I had to take care of him for longer than an afternoon."

"You give me far too much credit and yourself too little," Sir Percy replied, after a moment. There was another pause, and Sir Percy cautiously remarked, "I think you'd deal quite well with children, given half the chance. Are you eager to have your own someday?"

Marguerite smiled at the silly thought, and glanced at him a moment before looking back out the window. "What on earth can you mean, Sir Percy?"

He was quiet for a long time, and Marguerite was half- afraid she'd offended him.

"I only mean to say," Sir Percy replied, so quietly she could scarcely hear him, "that it surprises me that you aren't married to someone who has…." He trailed off, struggling for words. "You are beautiful and kind and witty and charming. It surprises me that no one has yet seen fit to… to try and make you theirs, though I can scarce imagine you'd belong to anyone but yourself and God."

"Ah, you forget, Sir Percy," Marguerite murmured archly, turning to him with a wry smile. "Actresses are to look at only, not to touch, and certainly not to marry. I've been offered many proposals but they don't mean anything. They're simply for show. They are very pretty to look at, or very pleasing to hear, but they are as ephemeral and worthless as daisy petals." She was slightly saddened at the thought, so she smiled wryly at Sir Percy and informed him, "And I am afraid I have been ruined by all the plays I've acted in. I'm holding out for true love." She waved a hand. "When I told Fauve I half- expected her to laugh me off but… she understands. You're ruined by such exposure. Once you've seen how perfect love can be, you'd like to try out that ideal true love and can't accept substitutes."

Sir Percy looked at her with a curious intensity of feeling that filled her with a bubbly sense of warmth and safety and almost tearful longing. She was at a loss as to explain why, so she merely looked back at him steadily, until the need to cry was too intense and she had to look away.

"I have no doubt you'll find it, Mademoiselle St Just," Sir Percy murmured, toying idly with his quizzing glass and not looking at her.

"You can call me Marguerite, if you like," Marguerite announced spontaneously.

"I should like that very much," Sir Percy said, with one of his shy smiles.

"Anything that gives you pleasure," Marguerite informed him, standing. "I like you a great deal. I hope we shall be good friends." With a last look at Matthieu, to make sure he was still sleeping, she moved towards the fireplace again.

Sir Percy followed. "If it pleases you," he replied. "I would do anything for you, Mademoiselle."

Marguerite turned to look at him in disbelief, and was suddenly struck by his sincerity. She remembered, vaguely, a laughing conversation from years ago, where he had gravely informed her, "Never doubt my sincerity, Mademoiselle."

Somehow, she didn't. She offered him her hand, and he kissed her fingertips. His lips lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary, and looked up. He looked rather handsome in the dull glow of the fireplace, with his fair hair tied back, and his gray- blue eyes glinting softly in the half- darkness. Her hand, meanwhile, rested in his far longer than was proper and she, trying to speak around a sudden desire to cry and scream and laugh at once, murmured, in an attempt at lightness, "Ah, but do you mean it?"

Sir Percy smiled, still keeping her hand in his. Her hand looked strangely small in his, and Marguerite looked at their joined hands in slight amazement. How odd they looked together, but how sheltered her hand looked. How strangely… safe.

"Never doubt my sincerity, Mademoiselle."

"No," Marguerite replied slowly, looking up into his eyes. "I don't think I ever could."

FIN


End file.
